When He Returns
by SoundsOfRain8
Summary: It's been three years since The Reichenbach Fall...three years John has thought his best friend was dead. But he's in for a surprise when the cab stops on a very familiar street. Short Sherlock oneshot.


(A/N: Hello! Another short Sherlock fic! A post-Reichenbach this time. This won't be the last little fic I do, I've got another to post today and another that's in the works. Enjoy!)

John stepped out of the cab and looked up to the darkened window before lowering his gaze to the gold numbers marking 221B. It had been a month since he had left Baker Street…four blurred together weeks.

Slowly he made his way up the creaking stairs to the door and paused before letting it swing open. It looked the same as before, save for the few boxes scattered about the floor and kitchen table. John had asked Mrs. Hudson not to donate any of the science equipment just yet…he could just imagine the field day Sherlock would have if he found out—_damn_! Looking away he glanced the abandoned violin sitting in the familiar black chair with a pang to his chest. Sighing he looked up to the ceiling and flexed his hands before turning around.

John could feel the tension building in his chest and he moved to his room down the hall, packing as much as he could carry out. Afterwards with a duffel bag slung over his shoulder, he hurried out, making sure not to let his eyes wander over anything else in the memory ridden flat.

O.O.O.O.O.O.O.O.O.O

Sherlock lay on the couch, eyes closed. He had done it. After two years of searching, he had finally rid of them. Three years of resolute isolation and having to tolerate Mycroft's incessant help. Since the day of his "death" he'd known that he couldn't go back to his life at 221B and so had been working to exploit Moriarty's henchmen. Even though Moriarty was dead, he knew there were still those loyal to him, or to be more accurate, scared that the consulting criminal was somewhere out there. The elusive Sebastian Moran had been different. The consulting criminal's right hand man and highly skilled sniper had almost done in Sherlock twice, and clipped him once.

Now that it was done his mind reeled on John. His John. Firm, reliable, army doctor John Watson. Sherlock had first decided to rush back to Baker Street yesterday and confront him. But then remembered he wasn't there. Mycroft of course had been watching John. The last time the man set foot at their old flat had been a month after his death. John lived in some awful place on the little income he made. Apparently despite everything he couldn't leave London. Mycroft had of course offered John money to help pay for better quarters, but Sherlock had known he wouldn't take it.

Sherlock swung his legs around and leaned on his knees. If he didn't go now there was no doubt Mycroft would come pestering him. It was three years exactly today. Ironic really. Striding across the room he shrugged his coat on. It was time to pay the doctor a visit.

John hailed a cab. He'd resolved to go to the park. If he had open air and people surrounding him maybe he could keep his mind in check. Keep himself from thinking.

It didn't take him long to realize this was definitely not the usual way to the park.

"Excuse me, where are you going? This isn't right."

The driver didn't answer.

John felt a hint of the familiar alertness that had been absent for what seemed like forever. Deciding that it must be nothing he relaxed, just a side route to where he was going. That was until he found himself nearing a very familiar road.

"Wh—," What the hell were they doing here?

His senses fully aware now, with a tight knot in his stomach, the cab pulled over in front of 221B. John glanced at the entrance, then at the cabbie before sitting back in his seat. This was—what was this? Mycroft? Was this some sick joke…no. Mycroft wouldn't pull something like this. Not without a very good reason….

John exited the cab with a numb determination and made his way up to the flat entrance. Hesitating, he paused at the door. He pushed back the nagging hope in his chest. This was just some trick. A coincidence. Maybe there was someone waiting to kill him behind the door. He tested the knob, it was unlocked.

Entering, he looked left and right at the room. Everything was the same. How could that be? The furniture, the books, the science equipment in the kitchen, even the skull on the mantle, the only thing missing was Sherlock's violin. He looked around, he'd thought Mrs. Hudson was going to rid of the equipment, store the books, _something_. But it was all here. Irritated, he searched all the rooms to make sure he was the only one there. Who the hell…what was this? He knew for a fact no one lived here. And if they did, Sherlock's books and other odds and ends would have been removed….

Returning to the living room John held back the lump forming in his throat and resolved to sit in his old chair. How fitting for him to end up here, of all the days of the year. Someone was going to get an earful. John clenched his fists then tapped on the arms of the chair.

Then everything seemed to smooth over when the familiarity began to sink in. He could recall every detail about this room. Sitting in this spot, reading his book or the morning paper while Sherlock played the violin or stared through his microscope. Solving cases. The wall full of photos and leads. John looked to the ever constant smiley face staring back at him as if it knew something that he didn't.

John wasn't sure how long he had sat there in silence, but he started when he heard a creak on the stairs and his body went stiff. At first he forced himself to relax, maybe it was just Mrs. Hudson. But the steps ascending the stairs were heavier. John couldn't decide if he could turn to the door to see who it was.

The door opened but he didn't look. He couldn't.

"Hello John."

John Watson's entire body went into stunned shock. It couldn't be. _How_ could it be? He was hallucinating, he had finally gone mad.

John stood up before turning around to face him. "Sherlock?" His mouth opened, but no other words came. Once their eyes met he took a few sure strides before stopping, a pent up anger and adrenaline surfacing.

Sherlock didn't move, didn't take his eyes off of John. That was, until John filled the distance between them and swung a punch.

Sherlock staggered back and dabbed at his bloody lip, looking at John in surprise.

"What the hell is this?"

"I'm—sorry John."

"Sorry, you're sorry. You've been _dead _for two years!" John took a shaky breath, pushing back the images of Sherlock's bloody, lifeless body. "You jumped off a _roof_ Sherlock!"

"An elaborate enough illusion."

Irritated at this answer John continued, "Why did you do it?"

"I had no choice."

John shook his head, "No, there is _always_ a choice."

"Not this time." Sherlock said quietly.

"Moriarty is dead!"

"Exactly." Sherlock answered with wavered evenness.

John tried to take a deep breath, the anger, frustration, _the hurt_, that had been ruling him all this time was trying to surface. "You could have told me you were alive, somehow. Even if—,"

Sherlock's frustration rose as he resisted to grab John by the shoulders. "Don't you see! Don't you think I haven't thought of that? Moriarty's men were still out there."

"Were? You've been offing baddies for three years?"

Sherlock gave pause before answering quietly, "….Friends protect people, John."

John froze at those words. Some of the last words he had thought he would ever say to him. "You did it, to protect _me_." He said after a moment.

"You, Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, he had men waiting for the order."

John wrapped his head around this, the fact that Sherlock had done this for him, for them.

"I'm not apologizing for the bloody lip." John said flatly.

Sherlock smirked, "Wouldn't expect it."

"But don't you think of pulling something like this _ever_ again." John pointed accusingly.


End file.
